


Lift

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-08
Updated: 2007-08-08
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: She takes him for a very interesting ride.





	Lift

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: There are no names given, but I think it's pretty obvious who this is supposed to be. I don't own them--but I do own this story. ;)

You don’t quite understand her sudden interest in seeing your office, but you aren’t going to complain at seeing her that much sooner in the day. You show her around to the various offices, leaving your own for last; with a smile she seats herself in your ordinarily stuffy-looking desk chair, spins around, and truly she looks adorable. As she turns the sun strikes her leg; you can tell by the sheen on her calf that she isn’t wearing any hosiery, which you think is pretty unusual considering it’s January, but you’ve learned to expect unusual from her.

It’s time to go, so you slip into your overcoat and grab your attaché. You don’t have any fixed plans for the evening, a refreshing change of pace from your most recent ex. You’re mulling over dinner options as you descend in the lift when everything jolts to a sudden stop. You turn to her; from the glint in her eye you know she’s as responsible as if you’d caught her with her finger on the very button.

You ask her what’s wrong, what the problem is, but she just keeps looking at you. The mirrors on the wall makes you feel like an army of _her_ is descending upon you, all with a gaze usually reserved for the privacy of her bedroom (or at least her flat).

Suddenly all of her earlier questions about security cameras make a horrible sort of sense, as does the simple fact that she never donned her coat.

She comes near to you, corners you. You address her by name in a very stern voice, asking her to please release the lift and allow their descent to continue. She shakes her head. You know you should do it yourself but you are powerless to move; in fact, you’re not even holding your briefcase anymore, and you can’t remember if you’ve dropped it or if she took it from you.

As she takes your hands and places them on her backside, she leans into you and tells you in a very low, very throaty voice that not only is she not wearing hosiery, but she’s not wearing pants, either. She gets up on her toes and tries to kiss you, but you are determined to resist, so instead you pull your head away out of reach.

She pushes your hands to the hem of her short skirt then pulls them up again, and your nails rake along the soft skin there. You realise she wasn’t kidding about the pants, and as you process this, she takes advantage of your astonishment and claims your mouth.

You fall back against the mirror, pressing your fingers into her, pressing her into you. You manage to utter futile protests as she weaves her fingers into your hair. Her mouth, her tongue is relentless; you don’t stand a chance. You swear she giggles and her hand dives between your bodies, confirming with her fingers what you’re sure she must amply feel pressed against her abdomen; you hate yourself for having such a predictable and rapid response.

You can hardly be blamed.

She tugs down on the zipper and as her fingers brush against you, you twitch forward. It’s rather a quandary: either somehow manage to stop her, regain your composure long enough to return to your house (it’s closer than her flat, and naturally time would be of the essence), or have her right here in the elevator, an appalling, unsupportable option under ordinary circumstances. When she grabs that traitorous appendage and raises up her knee to run the toes of her kitten-heeled shoes along your shin, you realise there is nothing to be done about it: you have to finish what she’s started.

You raise her meager excuse of a skirt, grab under her arse, then in a flash you’re lifting her like she weighs nothing at all and turning to push her up against the mirrored wall of the lift. You kiss her with the same fierceness she unleashed upon you. One hand curves around her while the other reaches down between her legs; she moans as your fingers flit over her. You wish you had time to truly explore, to please her at great length with what she has frequently described in the past to be lovely, long, slender digits, but the urgency to take her up against the mirrors is just too strong. Right now your fingers must be content to merely lead the way.

You hear her shoes one-two drop to the floor and her heels press into the small of your back as you work together to lower her into place; she cries out into your mouth as your fingers guide you into her. She gasps as you drive into her, and every time you do, a very small still-rational part of your brain is convinced that the silvered glass behind her will shatter. Faster and faster you move with her until you’re certain the lift must be rocking on its cable, seconds away from plummeting to the earth below, but you don’t care. Your hands hold firm under her thighs, your fingers certainly white with the pressure.

It all pays off. You feel the release coming and with a groan you tense up with one final shuddering thrust. You cover her mouth with yours in anticipation of stifling her own heated moans but as she tightens around you, you realise that while she’s gasping with pleasure, you can feel her lips twisted with a smile against your own. As you stop to reacquaint your lungs with air, leaning heavily against the side of the lift, holding her firmly in place, she’s laughing low in her throat.

It’s a question you must have asked out loud— _what’s so funny?_ —and her reply as her feet touch the ground again is a simple one. Apparently she’s always had an elevator fantasy, and your unwitting though eager participation surprised her as much as it turned her on. You can only smirk, feeling the heat of embarrassment flood your face.

She asks if she looks presentable as she slips into her coat, steps back into her shoes, smoothes down her hair. Honestly, she’s never looked more radiant or beautiful, and you make a mental note to fulfill as many of her fantasies as you can, but for now you only tell her she might want to put the seam right on her skirt. You ask the same of her. Reaching up to swipe what you guess to be lipstick from the edge of your mouth, handing you your briefcase, she grins and says in a teasing tone that you might want to button your overcoat up.  
  
You flush once more as she leans back and restarts the journey downward.

As the lift door opens she takes your hand. From somewhere to your left you hear your name. You turn to see one of your partners, and he’s grinning in a way that makes you very nervous. When he speaks you’re sure your face drains of all colour: _That was **quite** a show!_

Lightning-fast your thoughts turn to possible security upgrades you have no knowledge of, or two-way mirrored glass in the lift. In what you hope is an ordinary, calm tone, you ask him what he’s referring to.

Like Father Christmas he laughs merrily. _In court this morning!_

Relief washes over you. You’d forgotten all about your appearance at court. You know she’s fighting off a laugh and you resist looking to her lest she begin giggling in earnest. She merely squeezes your hand, urging you to reply so that you can be on your way; you thank your colleague, smile, and tell him you’ll see him on Monday.

It isn’t until you’re behind the wheel of your car that you dare to look to her. You rest your hand on her knee, then slide it up her leg under the edge of her skirt before you graze your nails along her inner thigh.

She then advises she’s willing to put off dinner just a little while longer.

_The end._


End file.
